This dream fits Astrid a little better than the rest; it’s not like putting on a well-worn coat, but at least a comfortable one that doesn’t chafe and pull at her shoulders. It’s a Nevarran town, but it looks so similar to the Fereldan lowlander villages she’d once frequented for market.

So she is a seasonal trader: she passes through on a predictable schedule to barter hand-made tools and supplies and dried jerky, buying and selling crafts, whatever someone might need. (Where does she live, and where does she actually lay her head at night? Don’t worry about it.)

And today Astrid comes meandering, with a click of her tongue to make the horse keep pace beside her. They make their way up the lane towards the Orlov ranch. The mare isn’t wearing a saddle, but Astrid only winds her fingers into mane and tugs lightly to redirect it, showing an easy confidence in handling the animal and trusting it’s not going to bolt when she reaches the outer fence of the ranch, undoes the gate, and ushers it through. Once she sees the silhouette of the man himself outside his home, in the garden, she whistles for his attention —

“Oy,” she says, gesturing with a thumb to the horse. “Got a runner.”

(It had leapt the fence a day earlier, escaped off onto the moors, tried to leave. He can’t settle.)